


you give me this feeling, this everglow

by ivorykeys09



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah...about that.” She smiles nervously and points up in the direction of their bedroom. “There’s a baby in our bed.”</p><p>(Or, another version of Felicity and Oliver babysitting Sara Diggle.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you give me this feeling, this everglow

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between 4x04 and 4x07. (So Oliver is running for mayor, they aren’t engaged, and William hasn’t come into the picture yet.) 
> 
> This isn't beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to DC, the CW, etc. Title is by Coldplay.

Her night had started out perfectly.

With Oliver working late at his mayoral headquarters, she _finally_ has the apartment to herself. Not that she minds him around—he lives here and, quite honestly, she prefers him around all the time because, um, have you _seen_ Oliver Queen?—but a girl’s gotta have a night to herself once in awhile.

Star City bad guys have universally taken the night off, it seems, and that _never_ happens on a Friday night. So Netflix, microwave mac and cheese, her penguin pajamas, and a stack of mags (everything from InStyle to Wired) are calling her name. And since Mr. Oliver Doesn’t Drink Anymore Queen isn’t home, she’s poured herself a healthy dose of cabernet.

It’s heavenly.

Until Dig ruins it.

She’s about to press play on her Netflix queue when a knock sounds from the door. She actually groans out loud at the interruption. “Unless you’re selling girl scout cookies, come back tomorrow,” she calls out, still peering through the peephole in curiousity.

“It’s me,” answers Dig’s voice, as her right eye comes in contact with cheeks too chubby and delicious to be his. “What if I promise to make Sara join Girl Scouts and give you all the free cookies you want?”

She smiles in spite of herself as she opens the door, but still rolls her eyes. “That can’t happen for another, like, six  _years_ , and I don’t think they can give away free cookies. Even to friends,” she replies, reaching out for the toddler. The diaper bag on Dig’s shoulder tells her most of the story: Sara is staying, Dig is not.

She backs into the apartment to make room to let him in, tightening her hold on Sara. She definitely needed the Netflix-crappy-food-no-Oliver night, but let’s be real—there are few things better than a warm, jammied one-year-old in your arms.

He drops the diaper bag on the kitchen island. “Lyla needs back-up on an A.R.G.U.S. job. She rarely asks for my help, especially without a babysitter on call, so I can assure you I’m not just doing it for a second honeymoon. It’ll be 48 hours, tops.” He glances at the TV and magazine set-up over by the couches and flashes her an apologetic smile. “Sorry to ruin your night.”

“No worries,” she says, waving him off and smiling at Sara in her arms. “My girl night just turned into a _girls_ night. We’re gonna have fun little lady.”

After a few more thank yous, a Cliffs-notes version of Sara’s schedule, and the good news that she's has already eaten, they’re left alone. Felicity thanks her lucky stars that Sara doesn’t cry at the sight of Dig leaving—since a wailing baby wouldn’t be the most ideal way to start off her little sojourn—and brings the diaper bag over to the couch. She sets Sara down on the carpet and watches in amusement as the girl quickly grabs onto the couch cushions to stand. She bounces in place and babbles happily, proud of her accomplishment.

Felicity grins and claps to indulge her. “I’d do anything for your parents girly, but it definitely helps that you’re the cutest thing on this planet,” she says, leaning over to kiss her soft hair.

She keeps an eye on Sara as she digs through the diaper bag. It takes just a few seconds to surmise that this is just the toddler version of Team Arrow’s emergency “go bags.”

Lyla, god love her, is SuperMom.

Not only can the woman kick anybody’s ass, but she’s made this babysitting gig easy as pie. Felicity totally acknowledges and owns the maternal tug inside her. She’s babysat a few kids over the years and has a natural nurturing instinct some people don’t have. But while she’s not in the dark when it comes to caring for a child, a few hours is wildly different than a few days. The situation happened so fast she’s had yet to take a moment to freak out over the possibility of caring for Sara for an upwards of 48 hours—nevermind the fact that her lovely, handsome boyfriend has no idea what (or, well, _who_ ) has crawled her way into their weekend plans.

(And judging from his _You. Me. No clothes. All weekend._ text she received just an hour ago, he’s in for a rude awakening.)

But, man. Thank goodness for Lyla.

There’s a legit _manual_ typed and printed out in one of the inside pockets of the bag. Not only are there Sara-friendly (and let’s face it, Felicity-friendly) recipes for breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner, the bedtime routine is explained in such detail that it leaves zero margin for error. She’s even provided a “Sara likes/dislikes” section.

Felicity fist-pumps the air and then leans over to fist-pump one of Sara’s little hands. “Girlfriend, I am gonna rock this babysitting thing.” The toddler only replies with gummy grin, which morphs into one of those cute scrunchy-face yawns.

Felicity references the manual. Bedtime is—or, _was_ —supposed to start at eight, and it’s nearing nine o’clock. “Thanks, Dig,” she mutters, anxious about already being behind schedule as she settles Sara against her right hip. After grabbing the bag, she goes to the kitchen to fill her sippy cup with milk before heading upstairs.

“Where are you gonna sleep, sweetie? I kind of want you in our bed, so hopefully Uncle Oliver will be down with that. You’re wrapped around his finger, so I don’t think he’ll mind. What do you think?”

Awesome. She’s one of those people who talks incessantly to babies. ( _And_ adults.)

Sara just rubs her face against Felicity's shoulder in response. “I know you’re tired, baby, so I’ll try to speed this up."

She’s already in her jammies, so Felicity places Sara and the bag on the carpeted floor while she makes a sleeping area on their bed. She basically just outlines Oliver’s side (and the floor, just in case) with a bunch of pillows, but given the fact she doesn’t own a crib or pack-n-play, it’ll do.

She turns to pick up the toddler and her heart plummets at the sight of an empty floor. “Sara?”

She hears a, “Da da da da,” echoing from the bathroom and jogs her way over to the doorway. Her pulse slows when she sees Sara on the ground, shaking her baby toothbrush in the air.

“Note to self, don’t put my purse on the ground,” she mumbles to herself, picking up Sara and then the diaper bag, which had been stupidly placed on the bedroom floor.

They not-so-quickly get through the bathroom routine—Sara has, like, three teeth, but the manual-aka-Lyla insisted on brushing them—before they finally drop down onto the bed.  

At this point, Sara is barely keeping her eyes open, so Felicity chooses to forgo reading the three books Lyla packed to skip right to bedtime. After tucking the baby under the covers, with her “lovie” (...as Dig referred to it?) and her milk next to her, she leans down to kiss her soft cheek and whispers, “Goodnight.” The little girl is out in seconds.

Felicity is not far behind her.

Sara has been there for only an hour and she’s already exhausted. And all they’ve done is sit in the family room for a few minutes and get ready for bed.

Frack.

It hits her (again) how _not-so-relaxing_ this weekend is going to be. So much for sexing Oliver up. Or Oliver sexing her up.

She gives in to her exhaustion and decides to stay on the bed until Sara is definitely asleep, so she props up on her right elbow and faces the sleeping girl. Unconsciously she uses her free hand to lightly trail her fingers through Sara’s short hair, then down her shoulders, then down her arms, before tracing her path back up again. It’s something her mom used to do to her when she was growing up, so she knows from personal experience how calming it is. (It was always easy to fall asleep when—even though her eyes were closed—she could still feel her mom right there, next to her.)

She may not be Lyla or Dig, but she still hopes Sara feels safe and comfortable under her care.

She takes a few more moments to admire the little girl’s face...her smooth, beautiful skin and long eyelashes and little bow mouth, such a perfect blend of Lyla and John. Someone could write a song—hell, she could write _code_ —about how perfect this little girl is.

Their jobs and...other _activities_...keep them so busy, she and Oliver have barely had a date night since returning from their Suburbia days. But even when they were, as Thea lovingly referred to it, “playing house” and surrounded by nosy neighbors and their kids, she really didn’t think about a potential-future-family with Oliver.

She was so happy to _finally_ be with him, away from all people and Arrow-y things, she didn’t ever stop to think about the future. Or, specific things about the future...beyond what bikini she was going to wear. And what thing from that Kama Sutra book they picked up in Asia she was going to do to Oliver next. (For the record, they made it through the whole book. Many times.)

She just knew that Oliver was in it—her future, _their_ future—and that was enough.

But looking down at their friends' child, whose eyes looked like Lyla’s and whose smirk was _so_ Dig...she couldn’t help but be hit with thoughts about their potential-future kid.

(Would their child have her dark, natural color or Oliver’s lighter brown hair? Would they inherit his precise coordination or her lack there-of? Would they be gifted with her brains _and_ his physical strength, rather than either-or?)

They’ve never had the “do you want a baby someday” conversation. She’s never felt compelled to have it, nor does she care what his answer is. Well, she’s cares what his answer is, but she doesn’t really _care_ care. Because baby or no baby, he is it for her. He is enough.

As if on cue, she hears the front door shut downstairs and his voice calling out for her. “Felicity?”

She holds her breath as she stares down at the baby, sighing in relief when she doesn’t even flinch at the sound. Yay.

Before he yells again, she gets up as quickly and as quietly as possible, then plugs in one of the baby video monitors on the nightstand. At the doorway she dims the lights a little more and takes one last look.

Oliver is definitely a sight in their bed—especially a very, very naked Oliver—but the sight of a snuggled up, sleeping baby under their covers is a view she surprisingly doesn’t hate.  

She leaves the door open a crack and then pads down the stairs, spying Oliver in the kitchen on her way down. He’s standing in front of the microwave, back to her, so she absently plugs the other monitor into the island as she appreciates the view. He’s dressed in one of her favorite Oliver looks: his suit jacket is off, sleeve cuffs rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened around his neck. She quietly sighs, her stomach fluttering at the sight of him.

This man. He’s all _her’s_. She can—and does—stare at him all day everyday, and yet she always loses her breath a little when she sees him at the end of the day. He’s so handsome it’s unfair. But more than that, he completely and utterly has her heart.

She’s already walking over to him when he finally turns around. “Hi babe,” he says smiling, eyes roaming over her pajama-clad form. “Sorry I’m getting in so late. I missed you today.” 

She hums at him, lifting up on her toes to loosen and remove his tie completely. When it’s off, she rests her hands on his chest and leans in to kiss him soundly. A warmth envelopes her as he draws her into his body, overwhelming her in all the best ways with his scent, his heat, _him._

The beeping of the microwave pulls him away, but he presses another kiss to her mouth when she whines in protest. When he does finally turn to shut off the interruption, she has to grab the counter to steady her dizzied self, as the unwelcome cold erases the warmth he’d just given her. She wants it back.

“I found this on the counter, uneaten. Did you not have din—” his question trails off as he catches her unwavering gaze, before deftly placing the steaming hot mac and cheese on the counter and pulling her up on the island beside it. Her legs open automatically as he steps in between them, his groin pressing teasingly against her’s.

His lips trail up the warm skin of her neck before nipping her earlobe, and the action causes her to lose what little focus she had on undoing his shirt buttons.

“Felicity,” he murmurs against her skin.

She gasps, “Yeah?”

He punctuates each word with his lips. “You.” _Kiss._ “Upstairs.” _Kiss._ “Bed." _Kiss._ “Now.” _Kiss._

She moans as he grinds against her again, his words finally setting in and reality shattering her haze of lust.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, her poor word choice only spurring him on. She corrects herself. “I mean... _frack_.”

At _that_ , he pulls away.

However aroused he may be, he still lets out a laugh. “I know ‘frack’ is in your vocabulary, but not usually for this.” Her flushed face and swollen lips aren’t helping him wait for a response, so he whispers, “Felicity... _bed_ ,” before closing the distance to kiss her.

She turns and avoids him, making him growl a little.

“Yeah...about that.” She smiles nervously and points up in the direction of their bedroom. “There’s a baby in our bed.”

Oliver opens his mouth to say something, but instead just tilts his head in confusion.

“Not just any baby. Obviously. I wouldn’t have a _random_ baby in our bed. We know this baby. And for the record, the parents know the baby is here...if you were wondering. I may do crazy things, but I’d never _steal_ a baby—”

“Felicity.”

“Mmm?” she hums innocently, looking up at him.

He’s more than turned on, and super confused—well, not _that_ confused since he’s pretty sure Sara Diggle is upstairs—and wants details of whatever is going on, but decides it can wait a second. He smiles down at her in amused adoration and kisses her forehead, unable to help himself.

“Sara?” he asks against her skin. He feels her nod.

“Yeah. And as much as I can barely see straight, thanks to, ya know, how hot this little make-out session was, we have to zip it up for the weekend. Because we _cannot_ have sex with Baby Diggle upstairs.” She pushes him away from her.

His face is almost comical, like a child who's just been told he can’t have a toy. And while she _is_ the toy in this situation and totally wants to give it—or, herself—to him, she stands her ground.

She tisks at him when he steps towards her. “Uh, uh mister,” she scolds. She has to turn him off _somehow_ , so she says the first thing that comes to mind. “Just think of Dig watching us have sex.”

His brow furrows in confusion, because... _what?_

She shakes her head, wishing she could erase her last sentence. “Ugh, I mean...just think about how mad he’d be. If he barged in on us. Having sex. With his daughter upstairs. Not Dig watching us like _watching_ us.”

At least her run-on fragments work for something, because he suddenly doesn’t have that I Must Have You Now look on his face.

He lets out a breath of resignation and notices, for the first time, the video monitor behind her. “She’s asleep?”

“Yup,” she confirms proudly, leaning back on her hands. “Lyla was sent on some A.R.G.U.S. assignment and needed Dig as back-up.”

Oliver crosses his arms and straightens in concern. “What’s the mission? Who’s the target?”

“We didn’t get that far. He literally handed me the baby—well, to get technical, he handed me the _diaper bag_ , and I kind of hijacked the baby—”

“Felicity...”

“Right. Anyway, he dropped off the baby and her go-bag—yeah, Lyla made her a _go-bag,_ which is _so_ kick-ass—and left. He said it’d be 48 hours, tops. I’m sure he’ll call soon with an update.”

“48 hours?” He doesn’t sound annoyed about the length of time and/or loss of his weekend... just surprised. (And probably, Felicity bets, even more curious about this mysterious mission they’re off on.)

She reaches out her hand to pull him in again. “Yeah. So buckle up, Uncle Oliver. She’s been super easy thus far, but I’m sure things are about to get real.”

They can only laugh at the timing of Sara’s cry sounding through the monitor.

Okay, so she hasn’t felt compelled to have the “do you want a baby someday” conversation, but his next move? It makes her want to have it. Because he hands her the thankfully-still-warm mac and cheese and kisses her before backing away.

“You eat. It’s my turn.”

Her dinner gets cold again, but she doesn’t care. She’s too busy watching Oliver Queen rock Sara Diggle back to sleep.

(If they have do have a baby someday, they are _so_ getting these video monitors.)

.

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> I may turn this into a two parter? What do you think? 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading.


End file.
